The Silver Fox (Red's Tavern 3)

Rock frowned. “Did he force you to cook for him when you were that young?”

“Oh, God, no,” I said. “Cooking was always my happy place. Dad… wasn’t.”

“He isn’t in your life anymore?”

“No. Things got worse and worse with him and my mom. And then one day, my brother Cameron and I got back from school and Mom told us that Dad had left. For good.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

“That’s horrible,” Rock said. “You were so young, but old enough to know something was wrong.”

I stood up a little straighter, making my way to the filtered water tap and pouring myself a big glass. My stomach felt weird whenever I talked about my dad, to this day. I avoided the topic at all costs, but the words had just started spilling out with Rock.

“I knew it was for the better,” I said. “Even at that age. It was a relief. I hoped he wouldn’t come back, and I got my wish.”

“Still sad, though,” Rock said.

I furrowed my brow. “I just wanted Mom and Cam to be okay. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

I chugged some cold water before speaking again.

“Anyway, nobody forced me to cook at all,” I said. “But when Dad left, Mom took on a lot more overtime working at Macy’s. Cameron and I were home alone a lot for dinner, and I got sick of mac and cheese every night. So... I learned to improvise.”

“Improvise like a fucking virtuoso,” Rock said.

I shrugged one shoulder. “I just cooked what I liked.”

Rock smiled. “Also, reason number two we can never date,” he said. “I couldn’t be with someone who hates mac and cheese.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t hate mac and cheese. I just make one that is way, way better than the boxed stuff.”

“I love the boxed stuff, but I’m willing to try yours someday.”

“You’ll be a changed man forever when you do,” I said.

I was hypnotized by his eyes again. I was letting myself get too comfortable, which always led to bad things.

Every time I got too comfortable, I got hurt. My last boyfriend had only lasted for about two months, and the moment I finally felt comfortable waking up with him in my bed, he broke up with me that afternoon.

And God, if Cameron and Rachel were getting divorced, I really was never going to believe in true love again. My stomach lurched as soon as I remembered. Talking to Rock for the last few minutes had briefly made me forget about the massive sea change that was going to happen in my family.

Everyone had known that Cam and Rachel were perfect for each other. They’d been the central hub of our little immediate family for two decades. Thanksgiving, Christmas, the Fourth of July. All of them spent at Rachel and Cam’s old cozy, beautiful house on a hill, every single year.

That house was family. It was where all of our memories lived. And all of that was going to evaporate.

“So you’ve been the family cook for your whole life,” Rock said, picking up one of my balloon whisks and twirling it around in his hand.

“It’s the only reason they keep me around,” I joked. “I still help my mom out a little bit each month with rent, and I bring her food once a week.”

“You’re an amazing son,” he said.

“Sometimes I feel like the failed son,” I said.

“Why? You’re successful, you’re sweet, it sounds like you’re incredibly generous...”

“I have no kids. No husband. My house isn’t anything to speak of. I’m nearly forty years old and I’m still going to this reunion alone.”

He gave me a sympathetic look.

“So that’s why you’re getting pressure about this Stu guy,” Rock said, his gorgeous eyes feeling like spotlights on me. “They want you to be partnered up for the reunion.”

He reached out and touched my forearm, his hand warm on my skin. It seemed so natural for him, a gesture he probably did all the time. People squeezed other people’s arms all the time, to show they cared. But it wasn’t simple to me. It made me ache with want.

It was like being given a cheap lollipop when I really wanted a steak dinner. I wanted a lot more of his touch, and when his hand was on my body, there was no way for me to avoid that thought.

Now the out-of-control feeling felt more like an impending tidal wave than background static.

The insides of my body churned around like a malfunctioning washing machine. The tequila wasn’t settling well. I didn’t know if I was going to be sick or pass out.

“Why are you talking to me?”

The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could put my usual ten layers of filters over them.

I knew immediately that it came off as rude. Too blunt, too direct, and probably made me sound like a complete asshole, even though in reality, I was just confused and overwhelmed. Why would he want to talk to me this much?